You've Got Ice Water in Those Veins
by Insomniac Owl
Summary: For two days now Cesare has lain in fever, sweating and shivering in turns, calling for Vannozza, for his sister, for the King of France. He sleeps fitfully, if at all, and is only sometimes himself.


**You've Got Ice Water in Those Veins**

_By Insomniac Owl_

* * *

The Pope is dying. And to hear the servants speak, Cesare is dying as well. Last week a cardinal succumbed to the fever; this week father and son have fallen ill, and the talk is that both will be dead before the week is out. It goes quickly, this fever. So quickly that there is talk of poison, but there is always talk of poison, and Micheletto knows the signs well enough now to know that this is illness, and nothing more. But that does not mean it is not deadly.

A groan issues from the room behind him, and though there is nothing he can kill here, Micheletto lays a hand on his sword. For two days now Cesare has lain in fever, sweating and shivering in turns, calling for Vannozza, for his sister, for the King of France. He sleeps fitfully, if at all, and is only sometimes himself. And during those two long, uncertain days, Micheletto has stood watch outside his door, for when things are so unsettled enemies rise from the gutters like serpents, and should his master survive this fever he may still be in danger from an assassin's blade. So long as Micheletto is nearby Cesare need not, at least, fear the second.

"My lord, please – "

He has kept the condottieri busy outside Rome – Monsieur D'Enna is in Ravenna, the others scattered in nearer cities with what portions of Cesare's army they have been assigned. Cesare's own men await him just outside the city walls, though they might depart quickly enough if word of his illness reaches them. The Vatican is locked tight to keep the rumors in, and that has helped, but things will not lie in stasis forever. Cesare has proven himself again and again to be merciless with those who betray him, but fear drives men to recklessness.

At his back the door creaks open, and the doctor's pale face looks out. The man has been kept at either Cesare's or the Pope's bedside since their sicknesses began, and looks half ill himself. "You, condottieri," he says. "If you have a moment?"

Micheletto glances down the hallway and, finding it empty, nods.

Cesare's room looks much as it always does, the few times Micheletto has been privileged to see it: bed, table, chair by the window. There are books piled against the armrest, Petrarch and Virgil, a history of Alexander the Great. But dust has collected on the spines, a thin shine of silver, and Micheletto knows they have been there since Cesare's last visit to Rome. He read more then, when things were calmer and there was less to plan; these days his spider's dance of lies and politics leaves little time for books.

"An ice bath will bring his fever down, but he is too weak to walk and will not allow me to help him," the doctor is saying. He's standing at Cesare's bedside, leaning over with a wet cloth; finally, Micheletto allows himself a glance at his master.

Cesare has been bedridden for two days now, and it shows. His hair is lank, dirty, and damp with sweat, and since he has not shaven in that time his beard has grown in a dark, reddish brown. He looks not so much a duke as a man on his deathbed, but his eyes are bright, and when he sees Micheletto his lips part in a liquid, uneven smile.

"Micheletto," Cesare whispers. Just that. His name, in a voice that sounds as though Cesare has been swallowing knives.

"My lord." Micheletto glances toward the doctor, who has retreated toward the table where he has laid out his potions and his knives. At the far corner, a score of leeches wags slowly in a basin of water. Illness, like everything, comes down to blood.

"Get him into the bath," the doctor says, turning to look over his shoulder. "I told you, he will not let me help."

"Micheletto," Cesare says. "My father…."

"Is alive, my lord."

"For now."

"Yes."

"Come, then," Cesare says, lifting an arm out toward him. "This physician tells me I must have a bath."

"An ice bath. Not so comfortable, I'm afraid." He grips Cesare's arm with one hand, slipping the other under Cesare's shoulders, and pulls him up. He weighs more than Micheletto expected. Even after two days of illness he is more muscle than bone, and that may change but the weight of him now, his solidity, is reassuring.

They make their slow way across the room, Cesare leaning heavily against him. "Has my sister been told?" he asks, stepping into the tub. He winces at the cold, then lifts the other leg in as well.

"Not yet, my lord. Your father thought it would best to wait, to keep word of his illness from spreading."

"To keep the vermin down," Cesare mutters. He lowers himself into the water, ice chips clinking softly against one another, closing over his knees, his waist. "Fuck," Cesare hisses. His hands clench tightly around the edges of the tub, white-knuckled and stiff. "The men, Micheletto, D'Enna and the others, where are they now?"

"D'Enna is in Ravenna. The other are closer to Rome. I sent messengers out to them, telling them to stay put for now."

"Good. Good. If things go badly here I will need to… to gather them in Cesena, a show of force for the Cardinals who would vote against me. Until my reconfirmation as gonfaloniere I will have lost the papal forces, so we must tread carefully." He has begun to shiver, so badly that his jaw shakes and cuts some of his words to pieces, but his eyes are cold and sharp. Micheletto is familiar with these dialogues, when Cesare rambles, untangling plots and possible futures, plans and politics, and it amazes him now to hear Cesare dragging himself from the grip of fever, forcing himself to think of what must be done. This is the man he admires.

"Micheletto," Cesare says.

"Yes?"

"In my father's room, behind the curtain, there is another, smaller space. He keeps most of his own valuables there, and many items used in ceremony. Chalices, robes, what have you. If word comes of his death… you must go at once. Bar the doors. Gather everything. We must leave the city while there is still… still time to do so. If I am not fit to ride, take me to Cesena. I will choose the next Pope, I think, but I do not know – I must be in Rome, but I cannot be in Rome. Della Rovere will see to that." He falls silent, shivering, then says again, "Micheletto, you must - if word comes of my father's death –"

"I understand, my lord. It will be done."

The doctor, busy at the table, does not seem to have heard any of this, but Micheletto keeps an eye on him just the same. He will make sure of the man's silence once Cesare is well and has no further need of him, but a knife and a whispered threat should do the job in the meantime.

Glancing back over his shoulder, the doctor moves forward, laying the heel of his palm against Cesare's forehead. "That should be long enough," he says. "Now I'll need you to help get him back to his bed. My lord, if you'll allow us?"

Cesare is steadier on his feet this time, but he lists heavily against Micheletto nonetheless, one hand fisted in the linen of his shirt. He looks so sick and frail when they lie him back against the pillows, his eyes burning dark in the pale frame of his face and his hands, clawlike, tight about Micheletto's wrist until he releases. His grip bruises, blood rising to the surface of Micheletto's skin, and this too comes down to blood. Blood spilled, blood drawn. In the bowl on the table, leeches turn with slow-motion grace. Their relationship has ever been one built on death and loyalty, which Cesare measures in the bodies Micheletto lays at his feet – servant girls and Cardinals, Juan Borgia with his poppy-thick gaze, the condottieri who betrayed him and Alfonso d'Aragona, strangled in his bed.

And there will be more blood after this, and more oaths sworn. Every word Cesare spoke today promised a future after this, whether the Pope lives or dies, and whatever else Micheletto does or does not have faith in he has faith in Cesare Borgia, and that has never wavered.

After a moment he retreats from the bed, slipping out the door as quietly as he came. The hallway is dark after the summer sunlight of Cesare's room but here, in the distance, he can hear someone going down the stairs, the low murmur of men's voices. If the Pope dies, he will know by the rising spiral of prayer and shouts from the floor below. If he lives, he will know that too.

Micheletto settles quietly against the wall, one hand on his sword, and waits for the tide to turn.


End file.
